


Wish for me

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - when Jaime promises to be Lord of Casterly Rock if Tyrion is let free at the trial - Season 4. Tywin orders Jaime to marry Shireen.<br/>(Stannis Baratheon and the Red Woman are killed in the Battle of Blackwater bay and Shireen is captured)</p><p>When Jaime discovers that real beauty lies deeper than the skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no beta, typed as imagined. Please excuse typos.

Jaime knew that faint smirk on his father’s face only too well. He regretted his words almost immediately, but bit his tongue and waited for the old lion’s response.

A brief nod gave Tywin Lannister’s assent to Jaime’s last minute plan to save Tyrion’s life.

“Spare Tyrion in the trial, and I’ll give up this white cloak. I’ll be your heir to Casterly rock and bear your heirs and heirs’ heirs. Isn’t family all that matters to you? I’ll keep your dynasty alive.”

His arguments were perfect. The future he’d set out for himself wasn’t however. The things he did for love. The things he did for family.

As Jaime walked out his white cloak billowing behind him, his armour glinting in the dark corridor, a lump formed in his throat.

Perhaps he could run away after Tyrion’s life was spared? To the Riverlands with his white cloak? His father would never forgive him. He would probably make Tommen, his own son, strip Jaime of his place on the Kingsguard. So much for his honour, for making a new name for himself. Jaime thought of Brienne, so far away, riding with Podrick. Was she shooting him her cold stares and frightening the poor boy witless? Jaime allowed himself a small smile at the thought of the grumpy wench and then sobered. He had to talk some sense into his little brother to make sure he did not do anything foolish – yet again. 

He spotted a lady in silks and much bared skin standing by in the corridor, sweating profusely, flanked by two guards. 

“Who is that?” he asked his squire Mellyn.  
“That would be,” Mellyn cleared his throat, “Lady Sansa’s handmaiden.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “Another one of my brother’s. That would be quite damning.”

Jaime approached the lady, “The Queen Regent asked me to accompany you to the throne room my lady.” He waved away the two guards and took her in the opposite direction. 

 

They were supposed to take Tyrion to the Wall. But Tyrion was gone. Jaime had helped him escape from King’s Landing. And now he had his sister’s wrath to face.

Cersei stood before him, his twin, his soul, his other half. She was beautiful even when she was angry, in a glorious violet the colour of wounded flesh, her eyes full of fury.

“He killed my son,” she hissed through her teeth, her canines too sharp. Jaime noticed things like that these days. Little imperfections about her. 

Cersei came to him and fisted the front of his shirt, glaring into his eyes, her own full of tears and frustration, “That whore – his whore - could have had them convinced. How could you let him go!!” 

Rrrrip. The front of his tunic tore and Jaime gripped onto Cersei, holding her to him tightly, clumsily reaching for her mouth. He felt cold steel pressing onto his throat merely a blink of an eye later, hot blood trickling down his throat. 

“After the time in the sept, I had that ready,” Cersei twisted the blade on the thin skin of his throat, cutting a bit more in threat. Jaime hissed in anger, his eyes flashing, more at what was denied to him than at the blade pressing to his throat. 

“Tyrion did not do it. He is our brother.”

“A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid.” She hissed to him, in a poor imitation of Tyrion. Jaime searched in her eyes, wondering how his brother and sister had grown to hate each other so. King’s Landing – this damnable place. Which brought him to getting away from here – and his plan. 

“Cersei,” he whispered. She stepped away, a little pain and desire blooming in her face and Jaime felt his heart tug with tenderness. 

He took her hands in his, one flesh and one metal. When Cersei felt the cold metal on her skin she flinched and backed away, turning to face the window.

Jaime addressed her – beautiful – back. “I will no longer be part of the Kingsguard. I am leaving for Casterly Rock on the morrow to be father’s heir.” He bit out the last words and spat them in fury. 

Jaime waited. He waited for Cersei to turn around and bellow her anger at him. Or perhaps rush to him and beg him to never leave. 

When she turned, her demeanour was cold, her green eyes, chips of ice. Jaime found jealousy in her set of jaw. Jealousy that he would be Tywin’s heir, when she lusted to be her father’s daughter? What was better than Queen Regent? But the coldness was also against him, the willingness to let him go. 

Fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know…

Jaime threw away his brother’s words – into the wind. No, no, it could not be true. Not sweet Cersei. Only his and never another’s. He’d never even thought of laying or even being with anyone else but her. There was Brienne – a pang of guilt shot through him-

Cersei clasped her hands at her narrow waist and nodded, her teeth clenched. “As you wish.”

“As you wish?” Jaime exclaimed, ruing the terrible anti-climax. “This is our chance, Cersei. Let us tell him – the truth. We can go away to Casterly Rock. Away from this damnable place. You can be my wife.” His voice trembled and caught at the last word as her eyes grew angrier yet again. No.

She threw a wine glass at the wall and laughed, long and bitter, with less humour than clean air in King’s Landing. “What makes you think I will come with you as your – fainting wife? What do you think father will say when he hears this? What do you think the realm will say?” Cersei gritted her teeth and lowered her voice, “Do you know how much I have given for this, do you know how much I have sacrificed? How dare you try and take it all away. Do you think I’ll leave my last child in this bush of thorns, alone? Our last child, whose secret if you reveal, will mean our and his – certain death-“

“The Tagaryens married sister and –“

“We are not Tagaryens!” Cersei thumped the table. She crumpled onto a chair, a mass of blonde curls. Jaime went to her and gently stroked her hair, holding her close to him. In another time, he would have felt an urge to make love to her – but not now. He touched the few silver hairs on her head and remembered those on his own. 

“I will stay, Cersei. I will convince father. You cannot go through this alone.”

Cersei looked up at him, her clear green eyes shining with determination, “I did and I can.” She stood, suddenly tall and erect and headed to the door, “I don’t need any man to be queen, let alone a one-armed cripple.”

One-armed cripple. The words cut through him. Things had changed. 

Jaime would leave. Without Cersei. Once again


	2. Chapter 2

Once the prospect of growing old and fat in Casterly Rock, and without Cersei at that, would have repelled Jaime into killing himself. But now the years, the horrors he had witnessed, and especially his wonderful adventures with Vargo Hoat’s mummers had convinced him that there were worse options. The worst thing that could happen was that his father could marry him off to some wilting doe-eyed bride, he would stick it in her a couple of times and they would have more god-forsaken children, none, hopefully, as mad as fucking Joffrey. Maybe even some as sweet as Myrcella, so far away in Dorne and blissfully unaware of her father and dear Tommen, chubby and earnest as a king. 

A lump formed in Jaime’s throat when he thought of Tommen. He had grown quite fond of his dear son, even though Cersei insisted he keep his distance from him. The poor, chubby boy sitting on the throne, the crown too heavy on his head, playing with his kittens. Jaime, for the first time in his life, felt a fierce urge to protect his king.

But, Jaime had no illusions (unlike Cersei) as to who wielded the real power. Sitting before him was his father, thoughtful eyes full of light at the prospect of his son finally doing his bidding, yet with a tinge of suspicion as things going according to his own plan so easily. Jaime felt an urge to defy him just to spite him. To stab him through his stringy, old-man chest. 

But Jaime had had enough. Enough of this darned place, full of whispers and rancid smells. Enough of war and blood and killing. Enough of running. He would be Lord of Casterly Rock, goddammit. He remembered the cavernous halls and bedrooms of his childhood. It wouldn’t be too bad, he thought, gripping the pommel of his sword of Valyrian steel, to go back to the memories of the old Cersei, naïve and his and his alone-

“I will leave by sundown, father.”

“You will do no such thing. You will first wed your new bride under my watch, here in King’s Landing. You will take her maidenhead. And then you may leave to attend to Casterly Rock,” Tywin Lannister ordered in his hoarse, nasal voice. Jaime clenched his hand into an iron fist.

“That was your promise?” Tywin’s voice rose threateningly.

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment and nodded, defeated. Tywin raised an eyebrow.

“So I will,” Jaime whispered, and they looked into each other’s eyes for a moment – one in victory, the other resigned.

The old lion leaned onto the table, and clasped his hands, surveying his son from under his brows. “Aren’t you curious as to who your bride will be?”

Jaime shrugged, “As long as she’s got a cunt, I doubt it’ll make you any difference.” He pursed his lips, pouting briefly, satisfied by his father’s eyes hardening at his impertinence. 

His father ignored his clever aside, “Shireen Baratheon,” Tywin Lannister wheezed, a though he were declaring a new loan to the Iron Bank repaid.

Jaime Lannister racked his brain out loud, “Who is Shireen Baratheon? Certainly Robert Baratheon’s relative, which is not obviously a good thing in the looks department. Could it be – could it be Stannis Baratheon’s daughter?” His lower jaw jutted out under his upper jaw in shock. Stiff, reedy Stannis Baratheon with nary a human expression on his face. And his wife – he remembered with a start from Cersei’s wedding – ugly as a warty, emaciated sow. What could a child borne of such a union look like? – he shuddered.

“She’s young, heir to the Stormlands, and she’ll bear your children,” Tywin replied in a matter-of-fact manner. Jaime caught a perverse look of satisfaction in his father’s face and wondered if he really was mad. Perhaps Joffrey had inherited more than a streak of his grandfather. 

“Well, I suppose,” Jaime replied. He really had no interest in some pretty, simpering bride. His heart belonged to Cersei. And he could have made an exception for Brienne. But, he really cared for no other woman. 

Perhaps, Stannis and his spouse’s looks had skipped a generation, he hoped heavy-heartedly.

“Very well,” his father replied, somewhat disappointed at his lack of protest. He bent down back at his parchment, scribbling on it, as though Jaime did not exist.

Jaime felt an urgent need to strangle his father. It wouldn’t be hard, he could finish off that thin throat with his golden and own hand fast enough. It would rid him off all his troubles – that old lion that saw and judged and hoped for him – and drove his life with his hopes and made him afraid and a child again with a glance. The old, weak lion that controlled him.

Yet, it would give the old lion more satisfaction if Jaime were to try to kill him and failed. And it was his father after all, however uncaring he might be. Jaime restrained himself and mumbled, “See you again, father,” before seeing himself out.


	3. Chapter 3

“- Oh and Mellyn. Send for Lady Baratheon,” Jaime said. “What are you looking at?? he spluttered, “Go get her!” A man had a right to see his bride-to-be, certainly.

Mellyn bowed and scampered away, the little rat he’d caught stealing in the streets of King’s Landing a few weeks ago, and ‘spared’. Jaime knew his father wouldn’t approve, but the relationship between Tyrion and Podrick had taught him that boys that you look after and grow up to be men – humble boys – made the best squires. Mellyn was humble and poor, an additional advantage – entirely dependent on Jaime, bowing and scraping the floor at his every command. He had the scarcely 10-year old boy eating up his every word. 

Jaime frowned and thought. The day’s wedding preparations had left him little time to ponder and worry and that made him glad. As a result, the inconvenient detail of his bride-to-be had slipped his mind. Surely he should be able to recognize her at appearance, so he must see her? – he reasoned, to avoid the risk of marrying the wrong woman, since so many in King’s landing would give their front tooth and more to marry him. A silly reason, nonetheless, but he must not be caught unawares doing silly things like addressing the bride’s aunt as his lady. 

The door opened a surprisingly short time later. A lady stood just inside the door, a couple of Lannister guards near her. She faced away from him such that he could only see one side of her face- plain, but not ugly. Stately in its features like Stannis but softer, feminine. Her body, however, was covered by a loose, ridiculously matronly, cheap gown. Not bad, he frowned – manageable even. In a dark chamber.

“Lady Baratheon,” he called out. He nodded to the guards to leave.

“Ser Tywin ordered us to stay ser,” the guard announced, “To protect the lady’s honour.” So he was the laughing stock of the Lannister guard now?, Jaime thought, gritting his teeth. 

He glared at them, and then softened his glare into his characteristic smirk, hoping to put the lady at unease, which he succeeded at. She flinched, pulling at her skirt like a toddler, and Jaime was struck by sudden guilt.

Here was he assessing her like a piece of meat and she was only a few years older than his own daughter, Myrcella – a child. 

He made his voice softer, kinder. “Do you wish to have a seat? It seems we have to make do with these guards hovering by us. I assure you I mean no harm,” Jaime bit out a tad sarcastically. 

The lady refused to move, and stood rooted, facing sideways at him, swaying slightly, seeming even more childlike. 

“How old are you?” Jaime choked.

“I am fifteen name-days past,” she mumbled, twisting her gown into her fist. “How old are you?” she asked, turning to him boldly. 

Jaime couldn’t help but widen his eyes. One half of her face, the face hitherto facing away from him, was marred terribly, scaly and rough and gray – grayscale, he realized with a shudder, spread till her thin neck and ending till the collar of her gown. How far did – it go? He remembered his father’s cool eyes with anger and then managed to rein in his surprise and disgust, remembering the presence of his guards.

“More than double your age,” he replied, gathering his wits. “Perhaps old enough to be your father,” he added quietly. He sat back on the windowsill, one leg up, surveying her with a sinking heart, reminding himself that people would certainly laugh if they saw them together. A cripple and – a diseased woman less than half his age. He was the focus of enough laughter as it was. He did not need more. 

“My father was a dozen years older than you,” she replied, interrupting his flow of thought. Her face held no hatred, no joy, no desire, nothing. It was cool and calm, studied, her earlier nervousness gone, now that he had lost his cockiness. 

An awkward silence stretched between them and Jaime could only imagine the stories that would be exchanged in the Lannister barracks.

“I wish he was alive,” the lady added, bunching her skirts again, her eyes turning sad, so sad Jaime wanted to comfort her. What had she been put through in King’s Landing as a traitor’s daughter? Was she thinking her father would never have allowed this if he were alive? Was she hoping for his head on a spike or his heart? The lady was unreadable – Jaime frowned – he could oft read ladies with ease.

“I certainly do not wish so,” Jaime snorted a little harshly, and then stared out of the window, not able to take it anymore. “How are the wedding preparations?”

“Good, Ser Jaime.” He started violently at his name. Her voice was indeed charming, the voice of a more beautiful woman. Soft, lilting and musical. He wondered if she sang. 

“I trust my father has taken care of it?” Jaime turned to her with a careful measure of nonchalance.

“Your aunt, Lady Genna was most graceful, Ser,” the lady said, bowing. Her demeanour and words were too old for her and spoke of horrors she had witnessed too terrible for her age. Yet her demureness still smelt of maidenhood. 

I will give her a better life, even if it isn’t full of love, Jaime though to himself, his sense of honour returning. 

“Well, then, farewell till the wedding,” Jaime said cautiously, nodding his farewell at her and turning away.

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime.” He closed his eyes at her mockingly beautiful voice.

“Goodbye, Shylene is it?” he muttered to himself.

“Shireen,” he heard her say in her sweet, shy voice, before the doors closed.


	4. The Wedding

What do you think of Shireen Baratheon, Mellyn?” Jaime asked as his squire slipped on his red and gold doublet and fastened its knots. 

“Lady Baratheon Ser?” Mellyn stuttered, surprised.

“No, her pet mongoose. Of course I meant Lady Baratheon, you fool. What do you think of her?”

Mellyn was a good judge of character, Jaime had found. He had seen right through the milkman who had poisoned the entire servant’s quarters by mixing sewage in his milk that nearly given Cersei a heart-attack by making Tommen slightly ill. If King’s Landing was full of liars, Flea Bottom was even worse, only the politics much different. Mellyn had survived till ten, “with- a band of three boys and a gal – m’lord” and doubtless could look at a man/woman and know if he or she was trustworthy. Jaime remembered how he always flinched and looked away when Cersei came in and looked at Tywin or Tyrion with his face shining full of respect, paid Tommen no heed and was suspicious with Jaime, honourable with Brienne. The boy was destined for greatness.

“A lady, Ser. She is a lady,” Mellyn said honestly and for a second Jaime wished Tyrion was here so he could show him his squire was better than his brother’s. (Jaime had successfully smuggled Tyrion out with Varys' help, for he somehow felt his brother was not much suited to life at the Wall - and there was no saying what Cersei would do to him despite his formal judgement as 'not guilty'.) However, judging from the rumours, Mellyn had nowhere near Podrick’s mysterious prowess betwixt the sheets. 

“Might as well get it done,” Jaime muttered in reply and Mellyn scurried to fix his boots. Jaime felt eerily like Ned Stark heading to his unforeseen execution – a brief bite of cold and fear at his impending future. He shrugged it off. Most likely he and his wife would have separate rooms in Casterly rock after the first night, avoiding each other save for necessary appearances together. Cold kisses and brief formal greetings. Bright eyed children like Tommen and Myrcella with a head of brown hair. It was an – alright – life. He could even make periodic visits to King’s Landing to fuck Cersei. 

Jaime allowed himself to be escorted by his uncle Kevan to the sept, making brainless conversation with the righteous man, wishing that he were his father and not the old, scheming lion. The sept was truly beautiful, yet tainted with the memory of so many tragic weddings – Joffrey’s, Cersei’s and much before that, Rhaegar Tagaryen’s. This would not be a tragic wedding. There would be no love – or – hate. There was no room for tragedy. 

It felt funny to have a near royal wedding – in a sept were only royal weddings occurred. Jaime had no illusions as to who he would be with tonight – the Queen Regent – so it was a royal wedding in a sense, Jaime thought, his mouth twisting with bitterness. Of course his father could not leave the Red Keep, nor did he trust Jaime to carry out the wedding- hence the royal sept. But, after this wedding, Jaime would be – free. 

He looked at Cersei, long and hard, trying to communicate his desire for her. She was drinking again, which she seemed to be doing much more than she ever had. In a sept, he thought incredulously. Her upper lip curved seductively over the wine glass, sending shudders through him, her breasts straining through the thin gossamer gown. After all these years –

His thoughts were interrupted when the doors opened and Lady Baratheon walked through, the Tyrell queen holding her arm, and keeping her at visible length, fearful of the greyscale no doubt. Jaime realized with a start that he was growing hard on the podium, standing before a hundred people and tried his best not to stare at Cersei again. So he looked at Shireen.

Shireen’s hair was tied up in a severe knot, making her look thankfully older, so Jaime did not feel as much like an old pervert. Her greyscale still remained stark as ever on one side of her face, her eyes duller and darker from nervousness. She was in Baratheon colours – gold and black (it did not suit her) a stag emblazoned on her back. One side of her face, the healthy side was bathed in the light from a window of the sept, a caramel eye peaking out under dark brows, while the other – the greyscaled side - was covered in darkness.

The septon’s words echoed through him as he struggled to say the words with her. His metal doublet felt like a cage. Once the cloaks were exchanged and she was smothered in a too-heavy Lannister red-gold cloak, she struggled to rise and weak cheers erupted through the sept. Jaime remembered to be gracious enough to grasp Shireen’s hand in his own and lead her down the podium, for she seemed to be a little off-balance. He caught Cersei’s drunk-jealous glare and felt a twinge of lust. 

They were soon out of the sept and Jaime held her hand till the Red Keep and released it when they were in the safety of the cool, dark corridor, away from the unenthusiastic crowd, booing and yelling Kingslayer or women crying (he could not say if it was in a mocking fashion), “Marry me, Kingslayer!” His palms were clammy and hers were too, so he sort of slithered his hand from her grasp.

“I will see you at the feast, lady,” Jaime whispered. He suddenly noticed her eyes were full of tears. She nodded and turned away, her Lannister cloak billowing behind her. 

A cold breeze blew through him, chilling him to his bones.


End file.
